The basketball beattitudes

basketball goal silhouette, originally uploaded by Mr. Wright.

Last weekend I was awash in sin.

My backsliding began with an innocent desire to eat nachos.

But on Friday night, as we gluttoned ourselves at Chacho's, I let my greed get the best of me: "Can I get a top-shelf jumbo margarita?"

And as we finished our two pounds of beef fajita nachos, my drunk ass scraping sour cream directly off the dinner tray, I let my pride "start fucking with me," as Marcellus Wallace would say.

"Mmm, yeah, what the hell, I'll take another jumbo. Hey, Mikey, make sure to get the top shelf."

Then I blacked out.

On Saturday: rinse, repeat, repent.

The affects of my excesses were to haunt me throughout the week, putting a damper on both body and soul. And my stories sucked too.

But, lo, on the third day there came a vissage, a notice in the paper, not even two inches square. It said to me what I knew was already in my heart. "Basketball," it whispered, "Midnight basketball."

That night my car broke, but I was not to be deterred. I pulled apart the center console and jerry-rigged the gear shift, just so I could go shoot around for a bit.

Driving home afterward, the car got stuck in first gear, and I found myself on a four-lane one-way road, going about 12 miles an hour. Cars changed lanes irritably as I crept along, while KUT played some down home country song that kept repeating, "Screw you, I'm from Texas."

And tonight, after another lackluster day, I found myself watching the O.C. and eating a sacramental dinner of saltines and grape juice.

Then came the NBA on TNT.

Dirk put up, according to Charles Barkley, "a muraclus performance." He had 53.

And tonight, Lebron's dunk,
Alone, on the break,
Floating at odd angles,
Across the lane.
A pause
And then a windmill of such force
It made me go Wooooo....

It was like poetry.

Thus ends that which I have written just for the sake of writing something.